"... I didn't know what to do or where to go. I was so lost. And then I crashed into Emily, and now, nothing will ever be the same."

"...You keep sticking around. You're still here, despite my uncounted ego. There's no doubt about it. You're bigger than me, Edward."

"We were made for each other, Thomas. I know we were. When you're gone, everything that I do, everywhere that I go, reminds me of you. I miss you…"

"Can you feel it? In the air? This tension, this sin? It's enough for this restless, old iron mule just to be with you, James."

Four engines. Two collisions. One Christmas.

This is Crashed.

Prologue: The Forest Green Queen

Forward:

Once there was a lady with regal grace,
With a forest green dress and a beautiful face.
At the nobles court, she sat with queenly poise,
Unmoved as she was bombarded by boys.
Big and small, ugly and cuter,
Please her, they tried, to become her suitor.
She waved each away with her brass bangled wrist,
It was easier than to show them her fist.
No one could seem to woo the young queen,
So she was seen as nothing but spoiled and mean.
But she had reason to be, you see,
In their hearts they had nothing to offer but greed,
They wanted her riches, her power, she knew.
None of them really loved her, true blue.
Had one came, who claim need not her money,
She'd laughed them away, thinking it was funny.
Openly they would coax her from that scoff.
Alas, it did not matter, her heart was closed off,
It was already broken by a man, the first one,
But once he was married, she declared to wed none.
Broken, lay the pieces of her heart behind the door.
No more pain , she told herself. Nevermore .
At last, when the suitors had all left the court,
In hobbled the jester, her comedian and cohort.
Short and stubby, all cheeks and smile,
The least handsome of all, yet had been there the longest while.
Rather by accident, he'd become her friend,
Always there when the day was at end.
In no time, he had her laughing, tears dried,
He had her better, and he had barely tried.
The next day, she surprised her court,
With news unlike anything prior of the sort.
Collecting all eyes, she rose from her chair,
"My decision is made, and I think it is fair.
Today will mark a change in the land,
From the glimmering sea to the rich yellow sand.
Trumpets will blow, cigars will light.
Fireworks will shimmer into the night.
A national holiday, to celebrate my ring.
That fool, you see, will be your new king.
Who, you ask? Look to your right.
To the short, stubby man who stayed up with me all night.
It was a friendship he had shown me from the start.
Thus, it was he who has mended my heart."

Chapter 1: Spilled Secrets and Shoeless Guards

Six months had gone by quickly for the engines of Sodor. A steamy, hot summer with fireflies had shifted into a cool, crisp autumn. Before they knew it, there came the day when the islanders woke to their country covered in snow. Winter had crept up on them.

The big station, Knapford, was outfitted accordingly. Red, white, and green ornaments were wrapped with gold tinsel around the metal framework of the atrium ceiling above. At long last, the holidays were here.

Thomas the tank engine simmered contentedly at Platform 1. His steam clouds seemed opaque in the cold, billowing from his funnel and around his wheels. They rolled up onto the platform, and onto the ankles of the passengers. The people walked up and down in their suits and nylons, some bundled up more tightly than others. While some strolled leisurely, others who were not dressed for the cold were hurrying to get inside their trains.

Some waiting passengers were drawn to the warmth radiating from his boiler. Thomas didn't mind this. In fact, sometimes this encouraged them to introduce themselves to their engine, and often there was pleasant conversation in it for the both of them. It was also an excellent opportunity to exchange stories.

Today, a small family was leaving Sodor on holiday. Two adults stopped at the ticket window, and the little boy with them paused to take in the sights. He spun around in his mother's grip, and gazed at all the lights hanging above. The decorations stressed that Christmas was less than a week away, and along with that, the covert visit from the all-seeing, toy-carrying, magical patriarch.

Eventually, his gray eyes came to rest on the little blue engine, sitting right there at the end of the platform. With a sudden, desperate curiosity only the child could comprehend, he broke from his mother's hand and bolted across the station.

"Bradley, come back here!" the woman cried out. Both she and the man at her side spun around and dashed after him. Alerted by the sound of their boots and heels smacking on the hard stone, the station master paused mid march. Unable to utter a word before the parents flew past him, his hand frantically flew to his chest, grabbed the whistle, and blew.

But there was no stopping the parents. Their little boy had disappeared. He hadn't slowed to a cautious stop until he was already lost behind the drapery of steam, five feet tall from the floor. He couldn't see a thing, and nearly bumped into the vibrant blue cab-wall. A timely gust of wind brushed the steam away, and there was the engine's face, just a few feet away. Bradley cautiously came around to look at him directly. The engine's face alone was taller than half of his own body, and that alone carried some intimidating quality to it. But adorned with a warm smile, the boy found it hard to fear him. "H-hey."

"Hello." Before he could introduce himself, Thomas saw the parents running around in the crowd. "Not to be rude, but I suspect this isn't your train."

"J-just one question." He looked Thomas in the eyes. "I'm here to ask: Do you believe in Father Christmas? No one else in my grade does anymore. But I heard steam engines were supposed to be wise. So I wondered if…?"

"Oh! Of course."

If his widening eyes said anything, it was that this was not the response Bradley anticipated. "Really?"

"Those who care about us are always watching us." The engine's gaze then shifted above the child's shoulder. "Turn around."

Amazed, the boy spun on his heel. But it was not the magical old man that flanked him, but his young, unapologetically ordinary mum and dad. His mother cupped him by the shoulders so that he couldn't run away again.

"Made you look." Thomas smirked.

The child looked ever-slightly betrayed. "Real funny."

"I thought it was. See you later!"

His mother smiled at the engine gratefully before heading to wait with the group forming on platform 2. Thomas watched them go, and then let go of a held breath. Children had mixed reactions to meeting engines for the first time, and it was hard to predict what they were going to do. Some shied away, their big faces frightening to the smallest kids, even so friendly as they were. Others clammered around, close enough to potentially scald their hands on Thomas' boiler, which was what he worried about. That had happened enough to his driver when Thomas was being cleaned.

At last, the porter opened the doors, and the coaches took in their relieved passengers. "Testing a child's trust is not a grand thing to do, Thomas," said Annie.

"Ah, he'll get over it. Did you see that smirk appear when he was leaving? He won't even remember this." As much as Thomas enjoyed kids, he couldn't resist messing with them too. Like he did the other engines, just to a smaller extent. Anyway, if one were seeking wisdom from an old steamie, Thomas was not the best choice.

While it was safer to avoid commenting on the existence of Father Christmas directly, he was not skeptical about magic in itself. It flew in the face of the science that boiled his water and made his wheels turn, but magic was real. He's seen that with his own eyes. Remembered what it felt like, being pulled through the buffers, between dimensions. And just when he felt ready to chalk up the magic railway as a fever dream, it would renew its truth: in the form of a little lone, stray fleck of gold dust stuck to his buffer plate.

"Can't believe Christmas is only a little ways away!" said Clarabel. She never seemed to grow tired admiring all the red, white and green lights twinkling above. And she was pleased to find that they reflected off of hers and Annie's glossy top coat as well. "Where has the time gone?"

"My darling sister," Annie started sternly. "You're never a cup half full. You're always complaining because you wish it was Christmas, and now that it's here, you ask 'where's the time gone?'"

"Oh, I'm not complaining! I love this time of year." Clarabel said dreamily. "Say, what are you asking Father Christmas for this year, Thomas?"

"Only the same thing I ask him for every year."

"Oh! Oh, silly me! That's right, you can't tell. Or it won't come true."

"You're thinking of a birthday wish, dear," Annie corrected.

"Oh, that's right!" As the bubbly soul she was, Clarabel laughed at her mistake and moved on. "Well, I don't mean to be selfish, but I would really like it if my backside window latch was fixed."

"I think the Tidmouth workmen could fix that if you tell them about it," Thomas told her.

"Aw! Fiddlesticks! Now I don't know what to ask for. And I only have a few days to figure it out!"

"And you've only had three hundred and sixty four days to come up with a backup plan," said Annie dryly. "Why don't you wish for the wellness of your loved ones and be on with it?"

"But that's so boring! I mean, I wish for that every night before I sleep! Father Christmas can do anything! Why waste my one wish on that?"

"Hard to argue with that logic," Thomas mused. He loved those two every bit as much as he did when he first took them for his own. Even if the three of them had their disagreements in the past—including the sisters bickering with each other on the daily—their friendship only seemed to come out of it stronger, somehow.

They'd seen many years come and go, with every year bringing new friends, adventures and possibilities. And Thomas usually always had just one wish for 'father' Christmas: Preserving the healthiness and happiness of his friends. Despite his ups and downs, he felt like he lived a good life, and all he wanted was for things to stay that way.

This year, however, he made an addendum to his wishlist.

As if on cue, a trickle of music from somewhere far down the station grazed an emotional wound that still had yet to heal. Every time he heard the radio, whether from a passenger, his crew or elsewhere, it reminded him of Mira. The little brown tank engine with her nasal voice who had stolen his heart.

What Thomas wouldn't give just for one more night, in the shed with her, buffer to buffer, watching each other's eye's close as they gave into exhaustion.

He turned his eyes to the sky. If someone's up there listening, please. Bring her back. Bring her back… He knew it was a long shot. He knew he was asking for a miracle. But he'd give anything for Mira to come back to Sodor. This time for good.

A minute passed, then two. Then three.

The flat-cheeked, perpetually unamused driver stepped out of the cab. Only then did Thomas realize what time it was. "No guard?"

Matthew pushed aside his sleeve and peered down at his watch. "I told him not to chug that mud every morning."
"Would you lay off?" scolded the fireman. "A man's winter chow without a little hot coffee in the blood."

"I'd rather him be cold and here and warm and on his way," the driver tossed over his shoulder.

"Ey, Thomas!" David called to him from inside of his cab. "What do you say we go ahead? But look out for large icicles—and don't be scared if they happen to look suspiciously like our guard, alright?"

"Very funny. When the Lord was handing out firemen, he ran out and tossed me a comedian."

"You got the complete package. Be grateful."

And thus they continued to wait. Thomas closed his eyes one more time. Please. Give me the girl of my dreams for Christmas...

Just then, a firm, tooting engine whistle from a ways behind snagged his attention. His breath hitched, his eyes widening. Stuck facing forward, he waited in anxious anticipation for the owner of the whistle to pull up next to him.

But when they did, what he saw sent his excitement crashing down like a load of bricks. He ought to have recognized the whistle right away—it definitely wasn't Mira's. Though it did belong to a female engine, who stared daggers at him through her steam. "Don't look so thrilled to see me," she said, Scottish accent never thicker.

"Oh." Thomas looked away, embarrassed at himself. Had his disappointment been that obvious? "Sorry, Emily. That, uh, look wasn't meant for you."

"I'd hate to know who it was for. I don't expect I'm the best part of yer morning,"—she was trying to temper her voice, and failing—"but I don't deserve to be jolted at, as if I just crawled out of the loch!"

Emily had pulled her own coaches to the 2nd platform. She wasn't above shunting, and had fetched them herself, just as the tank engine did with Annie and Clarabel. Unlike Thomas, however, she did not gleam under the Knapford Christmas lights. She hadn't had a bath in weeks. Her workload that winter had been so heavy, she hadn't found the time. Stone and rubble dust clouded her dark green paint until she was barely suitable for coaches. A plunge in the loch with the foam and seaweed wouldn't be the worst thing for her.

To top it off, she was wearing a scowl that made her incongruous with their merry surroundings. In an attempt to soothe her, Thomas directed their attention to the clock. "You're right on time again. I think you're in line for a record."

"And you're late again, I see. You realize when you take the express overflow that we use the same line, and I have to wait until you stop idling and leave so that I may leave myself."

Thomas was a little taken aback. "It's Clarabel's guard. He's late again. And you know my record is practically perfect!"

"So your crew should inquire if the station master has a backup man. It isn't that hard, Thomas."

"We're giving him just a few more minutes. We've worked together for years." Thomas eyed her critically. "Where is this coming from?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Thomas could've let this drop here, but he'd been meaning to get to the bottom of this once and for all. "I mean, what did I do to you? You've been cross with me for weeks, and I would like to know why."

"You ought to know, Mister-Can't-Keep-His-Lips-Shut."

Thomas thought for a moment, and then, it hit him. Like a stone rolling down from the cliffs. "Wait… " He did a double-take with his eyes, making sure as few people overheard them as possible—and no engines, for that matter. "Is this about the Edward thing?" He whispered. "Emily, that was months ago!"

"I still have a right to be annoyed with you about it, don't you think?"

"Not if I forgave you for telling everybody about my thing for Mira. I felt like I could sink through the rails!"

"So you thought it was fair that you'd let it slip that I was… eugh. Admiring him? Two wrongs don't make a right."

"Well, grudges flatter no one," Thomas told her. "And it certainly doesn't flatter you to act so high and righteous when we've both acted like children."

"Speak for yourself," she scoffed, and then looked away from him.

Thomas fumed.

His driver leaned right-side-out of his cab and shouted towards Emily's. "Marty, I told the station master we're running behind. Emily can take her train first, and we'll catch up."

"Loud and clear, old man," Emily's driver nodded. "Ready to go, Em?"

Emily answered with an impatient whistle. Her boiler still burning to the touch, she launched from Platform 2 so fast that her cabinmen staggered backwards.

It was only then that Thomas heard the backup main line coaches behind Emily, doing a terrible job stifling snickers as they disappeared down the line. "Emily and Edward, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g…"

Her hostility suddenly made a lot of sense. "I didn't think spilling her crush on Edward was going to have such lasting consequences."

"Well, she and Edward still have to see each other everyday," Matthew pointed out in a reprimanding tone. "There isn't any way to escape the teasing you've set up for her."

"I was just trying to give her a taste of her own medicine! I didn't mean to make her miserable."

Before he dwelled on it any further, however, the missing guard rushed onto the platform. "Terribly sorry," he panted.

"Good lord, man!" Thomas' driver scolded. "Why, you're a sight to behold! Look at you!"

"Huh?" The guard was puzzled, but only until he followed Matthew's finger down to his own feet—one shiny black shoe, and one red, wool sock adorned either foot. "Oh! Geez, it must've happened when my foot got caught in that snow pile outside the yard! I hadn't noticed."

Matthew sighed. "Just get in. We'll try to find you a spare at the lost and found, or something."

"Is that really appropriate?" The fireman teased. "To let him walk around the coaches, collecting tickets like that?"

"It's more proper than drowning himself in cologne because he woke up too late to take a shower, like some firemen I know." The driver cast slitted eyes on the fireman's soot-caked cheeks before undoing Thomas' break. "Hate to think of the state of your pillow case."

"Coal washes out." David crouched and opened the firebox door, just to watch the flames. "It's the mascara that won't."

"The Island of Sodor: A four season paradise in the sea. A gleaming diamond in the Isle of Mann, where the beauty of nature knows no bounds, and tradition is sacred. So sacred that its main railway, the North Western, maintains and employs the largest collection of working Steam Locomotives remaining in the world."

"I didn't know we were a collection!" Percy cried in delight. "Wow!"

"Shush!" came the chorus of voices from the other engines. They never got to hear their Island talked about on the radio, and they didn't want to miss a word of it.

"Comments after the broadcast, buddy," his driver reminded him kindly.

"Oops. Sorry."

The boys and their men were gathered at Tidmouth sheds. It had just passed midday, and the sunlight above made the virgin snow around the tracks sparkle like a blanket of tiny crystals. Still, it was chilly and windy, so the engines' backends were tucked inside their respective berths, buffers barely sticking out open doorways. Drivers and firemen were scattered 'round, either keeping their engine's fire's at a comfortable flicker, or standing by the fire can in the middle of the track circle, rubbing their hands together to keep dexterity for the next journey.

Thomas' fireman had brought the radio that was being used. He had tuned into a broadcast promotion for a segment on the Island of Sodor, and Thomas gathered as many engines that were available so that they, too, could hear it when it aired. He hadn't expected it to turn into an assembly of the First Eight, but alas, so it became.

Currently, David was sitting on an old crate next to Thomas' berth, not too far from the fire can, adjusting the volume when necessary. "This is possible because of one man's nostalgia, compassion, and unwavering loyalty to the industrial mules of days gone by," the spokesman on the radio went on. "Sir Topham Hatt, age 67, emphasizes that there have been only benefits of operating a railway consisting almost entirely of rescues. Many of these engines have fallen through the cracks elsewhere, bound for lifeless museums or fiery scrapment. But thanks to Sir Topham Hatt's determination to save them, they all have a new lease on life.

Railways across the world cannot have the nostalgia, the compassion, or the sheer faith that drove Hatt to create a lasting home and legacy, particularly for steam engines. Not only does he believe in the usefulness of steam locomotives, but he intends on keeping them for as long as they continue to operate. This is just one of the many things that makes the Island of Sodor a time capsule in an ever faster changing world."

And just like that, the news segment was over, and a jingle for a soap bar brand began to play.

None of the engines spoke up until it was halfway done.

"That's it?" said James. "Well, that was a fat load of nothing."

"It's nice that they would mention us on the radio," Toby thought out loud. "But what was the point?"

"It didn't quite sound like an advertisement for tourists," Duck noted.

"That's because it wasn't!" Gordon sniffed. "Nothing but political bolstering rubbish. Disgraceful that they would dare pull Sir Topham Hatt's name to make a point, let alone the rest of us."

"But what does it all mean?" Percy asked.

Thomas thought carefully before responding. "It sounds as if the person who's reporting used our railway as an example for how steam engines can still be really useful."

"Too bad Parliament doesn't agree," Henry noted. "Or all of Great Britain would take advantage of us. That's what my driver says."

"That's my boy," said his driver, patting the inside of his cab.

"Clark… " said David, "... Didn't you used to be a disestablishmentarian?"

"I prefer the term 'beat'," Henry's driver smirked before sipping his cocoa.

"So if I am understanding this correctly," said Duck, "that all is just to say that there'd be more steam engines still existing if more railways ran like ours?"

"More active and working, anyway," said Thomas. The world away from Sodor seemed so distant at times. It was hard to picture what life was like off of the island. And if that man on the radio was to be believed, there was a good reason for that: Sodor was the home for the most employed steam engines in the world.

A novelty, they were, in places like London, rural Ireland, and even the American Midwest, Mira had told him before leaving. Thomas couldn't imagine living somewhere where he was such an outlier. The thought was frankly terrifying. He didn't know how she put up with it.

Although, the thought of being by her side made the prospect considerably less scary. One he might actually put himself up to, if it meant getting to be with her again.

"I heard in most places these days," James broke in, "when a steam engine sees any damage at all, their owner sends them straight to… well, you know."

"You should believe everything you hear," Edward told him.

Thomas agreed, though he could hear the shake in Edward's voice as he said it. The possibility that what James said was true made him consider himself lucky. The tank engine still had a welding scar where his front end and front wheel coupling had been ripped off six months ago, helping to rescue Gordon from the cliff's edge over Brendam Bay. Sir Topham has paid for his repair without a moment of hesitation—Thomas has sacrificed himself to save Gordon, and he'd been rewarded for it.

But just thinking about the incident for too long made his scar throb. And sometimes he wondered if his seam line looked more noticeable than it had been before. But the last thing he wanted was for his crewmen to think he was becoming paranoid, so nothing was said of it.

"You have a remarkable talent for turning a positive thing into a negative one, James," said his driver.

"Hey, I'm just telling it like it is!" James said back. "Not that we have reason to worry. None of us have been in a major accident in years, including yours truly."

"Thank the Lord for that." And his driver said no more.

While the broadcast had played, Sir Topham Hatt telephoned the yard from his office, instructing the drivers to keep their engines there a little longer. The staff obeyed the order, never knowing which engine he might send out for a job on a moment's notice.
Another engine arrived. "Charlie! Would you get a look at this?!"

Edward rolled to a stop on the table, soaking in the details of every precious, familiar face before him as it turned. The mere sight of so many of his old friends together seemed to turn back time. For a moment, the wisened engine somehow sounded twenty years younger. "Henry! Duck! Feels like I rolled right through a time machine!"

"Not every day you see the old gang all here," his driver agreed, flicking the end of his cigarette out of the doorway. "Just like the good, old days."

"Duck called for me as soon as your call came through." Edward crossed the turntable and backed up into the last warm berth left empty. "What'd we miss?"

"Some sort of mainland radio show talking about Sodor," Thomas explained, although his excitement was long gone. While he assumed the piece had been all compliments towards the railway, Gordon's insinuation of politics made him wonder if there might have been more serious to it than that.

"It was trying to say that Sir Topham Hatt's railway being made up of steamie rescues was a good thing!" Percy tried to elaborate. "I… think."

Duck made a face. "As opposed to… what?"

"Maybe—maybe, it's because steamies are old, and the old ways are like traditions! And traditions are nice. Y'know, that's why people have them. But not all traditions are good, and some people think all traditions need to go away, because old ideas aren't always perfect…"

Surprised to hear the chugging of another engine approach, Thomas looked up towards the horizon. And what he saw at the end of the yard shrunk the flames in his firebox. Oh. That figures.

Edward watched her approach with a frown. His eyes flicked to the blue tank engine. "You didn't leave a space for her?"

In lieu of body language, engines were usually fluent in lip reading. "I called eight," Thomas whispered back slowly, in case his words were drowned by the wind. "I didn't think she'd come! Not after this morning… I would've sat on the siding, I… "

But as he trailed off, he and Edward watched Emily back up onto the shelterless open track herself, all the way on the left, next to Edward's berth. She greeted nobody, but her tight lips and flared nostrils said enough to draw everyone but Percy quiet. While the brotherhood were all warm in their berths, she was left out in the cold.

Good old days indeed.

Thomas looked back at Edward, brows pinched. Well. Nevermind, then.

"... because they came before new ideas. And so we're like old ideas! And not everybody… oh…" Percy felt like he could crumble inward with embarrassment. "... nevermind."

"Nice try, Percy," Gordon told him. "Don't strain yourself."

The green tank engine scowled. Just because he had difficulty articulating his ideas didn't mean he was too stupid to recognize condescension.

"Sir Topham Hatt is coming down from his office with an announcement for us," Toby told them. "You two came just in time."

Gordon let out a big yawn. "I hope he hurries up and tells us what this is all about. I'd like to get in a nap before the run tonight."

At last, the little blue car pulled up to the sheds, and the Fat Controller stepped out of the driver's side. He came dressed in his regular suit and pants. But on top of that, he had a scarf around his neck, and a fluffy brown trapper hat, protecting his hairless head and ears. He shivered as he approached the resting engines. "Brrrr! Shouldn't have left my jacket in the office… Ahem. Good afternoon, everyone. Hope we're all keeping warm."

"Your mouth to His ears," a chilly Henry said, turning his eyes to the sky. He then remembered who he was speaking to, and cleared his throat. "Uh… sir."

Sir Topham Hatt chuckled. "Amen, Henry. Now, I was glad when I looked out my window to catch you all in between jobs. There's an announcement I've been meaning to make. It concerns a… well, a last minute plan for Christmas activities."

Percy became worried. "You're not going to cancel our party, are you, sir?"

Several of the other engines exchanged nervous glances. The Christmas Day party at the sheds was something they looked forward to every single year.

To everybody's relief, the Fat Controller regarded Percy playfully. "And take away something that gives you all so much joy? I'm disappointed in you, Percy. What kind of cruel Controller do you take me for?"

"I-I don't!" Percy panicked. "I think you're a very nice controller!"

"Perhaps I should cut to the chase… As you all know, we have a very large influx of visitors to the island in the late springtime, around Mayday. We are not as busy in the wintertime, because many of the island inhabitants take their holidays away around Christmas, towards warmer parts of the world. In fact, record shows that our tickets take a significant dip starting Christmas Day, and we don't see those numbers start to pick up again until mid March.

"Our very last express run from Knapford to Brendam Bay on Christmas Eve is usually quite busy. But you see, the heads of the railway board have thought of doing something a little different this year—to show our appreciation for the railway traffic. This year, the express run will be carried out by two special trains, carrying Mr. and Mrs. Claus themselves."

"Gracious! " said Duck. "We've never had anything like that before."

"Never," the Fat Controller confirmed. "It was an idea that the board had suggested for years. It's been adopted by inner city railways back on the mainland already. I never gave the idea much thought until recently, I admit. But of course, it'll only work if I have two engines who wouldn't mind working so late on Christmas Eve."

The broadcast that had brought them together was quickly forgotten, as the engines began all talking over each other.

"You all deserve the job," said Sir Topham Hatt. "And frankly, if I could afford to spare you all, I'd have it be a parade train for everybody, in celebration of your hard work. But, as the tradition from the mainland dictates, I must have only two. And I have chosen to ask James and Emily for the task," Sir Topham Hatt said, putting his hands behind his back, and stepping on tippy toes. "That is, if the two of you would like to."

"Would I!" James exclaimed.

"Uh, Sir!" Thomas began. "There's a bit a problem—"

"Wait-wait wait a minute!" A furious Gordon cut him off. "Sir, I'm your leading express engine! I'm surprised you didn't ask me if I'd like to do it!"

Sir Topham Hatt turned to Gordon. "To be decorated in ribbons, tinsel and shiny balls, and a big, red hat?"

"I-uh…"

Toby and Henry snickered. Even Edward couldn't suppress a satisfied grin.

"I… no… not really."

"Well, I don't mind!" James boasted excitedly. "My paint looks good with everything. And I fancy I'd look dashing in a nice, red, velvet hat."

"I can think of only one reason why they'd choose James for the job," said Henry, rolling his eyes.

"I chose James because of his excellent behavior recently," said the Fat Controller sternly. "But I'd, uh, be dishonest if I didn't admit that his livery also lends well to the cause."

"It pays to be this color," James went on. "I'm fit for so many holidays. Christmas, Valentine's Day… uh… "

"Dear me, I've lost count already," said Toby.
"Jealous? We'll check back with you on Arbor Day."

"That'll be enough." Before Toby could retaliate, Sir Topham broke in. "James, in the future, I suggest you behave more gratefully, or I can give the jobs I assign you to someone else."

All that sweet gratification quickly drained from James' face. "Yes, sir."

"Very well. That's the Father Christmas train settled." He turned to the Stirling next. "Emily, you've beat your on-time record streak once again. Would you like to pull the Mrs. train?"

"Well, I!... certainly, sir." But she sounded hesitant. Voluntary or not, a job was a job. Emily never had a reason to turn one down in the past. But this sounded like quite an important tradition that she would be helping set the standard for, and on such short notice, and with so much else on her schedule—

—could she have, just then, out of the corner of her eye, noticed that annoying tank engine glaring at her from two tracks over? If she did, she ignored him. "Whatever will help to make this a special Christmas."

"I should think it will be. I'll certainly enjoy it."

Leaving it at that, the Fat Controller made his way out of the sheds, into his cozy heated bug, and home for a warming cup of afternoon tea.

Percy, always full of questions, looked at Thomas. "What do you think he meant by that?"

"Dunno," he replied, finally peeling his searing eyes off the filthy, cold Stirling. "But as long as this doesn't mess with our Christmas party, I don't really care."

"Do you think we should've told him about the news report?" asked Toby.

"Oh, I'm sure he knows about it," Thomas' fireman scooped the radio from the ground under his arms, and hopped into Thomas' cab. "He was interviewed for it, after all."

"Clearly, he has other things to care about," Thomas' driver added. "And we should, too. Alright, Thomas, cocoa and conference is over. Let's go fetch your coaches."

Thomas was ready to leave, but as he pulled up alongside Emily, taking on water at the nearest tower, he couldn't contain himself. "Gee, thanks, Sir!" He said, putting on his best impression of Emily's voice, accent and all. "It's an honor to be asked to pull such a special train, i'tis, but I already promised a friend o' mine I'd help him at the smelter's yard that night. So thanks, no thanks! "

Emily looked his way, boggled. it took a moment to register what he meant, but when it did, her eyes widened. "Ah. Right. Christmas Eve."

She'd forgotten she agreed to help Thomas shut steel that night. Ever since 'Arry and Bert had spooked them there on Halloween years ago, whenever Emily or Thomas got assigned work there in the evening, the other agreed to go with them. Even if they'd grown out of their worry about ghosts, it helped to have a friend there. The company did away with any lingering eeriness about the place, as well as made the time go by faster.

Most of the engines had one place on the island where they worked with a friend the most. And like Thomas and Percy had the docks, Thomas and Emily had the odd smelter's yard job. In fact, they'd worked together there so much that the Fat Controller usually assigned them both together on the schedule automatically, if he didn't just leave one engine free at the time the other engine had that job. The man must have forgotten this time.

And so had Emily. "I'm sorry, Thomas, it just slipped my mind—"

"Yeah, sure," Thomas cut her off. "Whatever. Sorry for kicking you out of the shed today. Have fun with James. Don't forget to bring a pair of boot laces and a newspaper!"

Emily watched his bunker disappear over the horizon as the realization sunk in. He… he thinks that I lied. That I'm ditching our job and leaving him with all the work on purpose! And remembering their quarrel earlier at Knapford only made her more certain. If he thought she'd really sink so low, she'd gladly take any excuse to stay away from him.

She went on to her next job with a scowl that couldn't be removed. Not even with a paint scraper.

Thomas chuffed all the way over to the next water tower for a drink. He was boiling through his water rapidly, puffing like a stressed out smoker on their first cigarette of the day. There was so much steam in the air that it even misted his face. All as well, he supposed. Every gust of wind that touched his burning cheeks was a relief.

He couldn't recall the last time he'd been shoved aside. And for a night spent with James? Pfft.

He'd expected a long, tedious job together, if nothing else, would end this grudge she had against him. But apparently she'd rather dig in her wheels and make sure reconciliation was not going to happen. Maybe being kicked out of her own shed really had put her over the edge.

At last, his boiler was being refilled, and he felt himself start to cool off. He was almost full when Edward pulled up on the neighboring track. "I'm not doing anything on Christmas Eve, Thomas. Why don't I help you with the smelter's yard work?"

"Aw, Edward, I can't ask you to do that. You deserve to have the night off. Nobody works harder."

"Bother, that! All I do is back-trains lately. I'd be happy to do something useful. I couldn't stand the thought of you working all alone on Christmas Eve."

"But won't your crewmen be at home?"

"Hey, we don't mind picking up the job. My wife'll be out caroling—" Edward's driver hooked a thumb towards the fireman, just as he joined him at the door. "—and Sandy's kids are visiting their mum."

"It'll be like old times," Edward continued. "And we'll knock the work out in no time, and be back to see the shedsmen wrap Gordon in colored lights while he's asleep. You'll see."

At last, the tank engine found a grin. "Alright then, Edward, it's a deal! I'll actually look forward to it."

With that verbal handshake, Edward hurried off to his next job as quickly as he could.

For a moment, Thomas felt at peace. But inevitably, the engine who had caused him such undue stress today circled back to mind.

The most selfless engine on Sodor was bound to have fans. Though he was called small and weak for a tender engine, Edward had a lot going for him: Wisdom, patience, the miracle work he did on Bill and Ben...

It didn't help that he wasn't a bad looking bloke, either. And the long scar that ran from his temple to his chin gave an edge to his masculinity. "Can't say I don't see why girls are so fond of him," he told his crewmen quietly.

And it was at that moment, Thomas felt a strange, slight twinge of… something he'd never felt before. Annoyance? At Edward?

"You've gone awfully quiet all of the sudden," said Matthew suspiciously. "Out with it, Thomas! What kind of plans are you cooking up in that smokebox of yours?"

"Nothing until I get a better gauge on Edward," Thomas began carefully. Some male-on-male engine conversation was in order. To what degree did Edward like Emily, anyway? As friends, they were quite close. Not to mention Edward didn't shy away from telling her she was pretty from time to time. Thomas would sooner run himself off an unfinished bridge before giving the oh-so-prestigious Stirling half such a compliment.

"What for?"

Curiosity was getting the better of him. Could they, Edward and Emily, actually be a couple, come the end of the year? "If I can get him and Emily together maybe it'd make up for him always having my back—and get Emily off my back in the process."

"Now there's a plan!" his fireman praised. "Kill two birds with one stone."

"It's a plan," agreed the driver. "Not a good one."

"Why not? I started this mess," Thomas told the men as they headed for the coach yard. "What better way to stop jokes about an unrequited crush if it's not unrequited anymore?"

So shipping is kind of a controversy in Thomas, in that it is, well, yeah, blasphemous. Yeah I get that the show is more or less aimed at preschoolers. Especially the reboot. And the fact that the main characters are engines in general makes character shipping them extra strange. But the same character chemistry that got me interested in Thomas in the first place is what makes me feel like the characters miiight just be able to carry a meaningful romance plot. And I'm a disgrace, so I'm gonna throw my two cents into the pile.

Going into this, I had a very rough outline, but it involved the aftermath of Edward finding out Emily likes him. Eddie's such a pure dude. He'd be mature about it even if it's unrequited, and this is why we forever and always stan Edward. And even before finding out the engines they were based on were built only one year apart, I saw Emily and thought "oooh, she and Edward are like the same age. I wonder…" That said, as far as I'm aware, they never do anything with Emily's age giving her mechanical problems like Edward has. A friend of mine suggested Emily might be a replica of a sterling rather than the real 19th century, and that would make a lot of sense. For the sake of this fic, I made up a reason Emily's an original and has been kept in such good condition all these years while Eddie is falling apart. To keep from a weird engine-ship fic getting well, even weirder, even without hanky-panky, everybody in question is old as dirt, here, lol.

I didn't think of Thomas and Emily as a ship initially, but sitting down and watching some later season episodes again, I can kinda see it. To address the elephant in the room, so yeah, their relationship has been described as a sibling relationship in text before, (big ick. For the sake of this fic, we're not gonna touch that), but I have a feeling that description came out at a point when they decided to buckle down against love interests in the TV series (possibly when HIT took over?). And obviously, as the series has switched hands over the years, they yeeted that rule out the window with Ashima. And possibly because they were running out of ideas. I'm chill with almost any engine ship save for incestuous ones. If this ain't your tea, that's totally cool! This is just a hypothetical I wanted to play with.

Some notes about this chapter:

First off, I did my best with the opening poem, but ehhh.

Next off, I couldn't help but feel like the engine's crew had a teeny tiny more lines in the original seasons, even if it's just stuff like, Thomas's driver chewing him out about destroying the snow plow, and I kind of wish they hadn't done away with that completely. There's something more compelling about showing the humans being as complex and interesting as the engines. I wouldn't want them to take over the show, but it's more interesting when the engines interact and even conflict with their crews. Especially if you, bare with me on this headcanon, Thomas can just nope his driver's authority whenever he wants because he doesn't GAF. You gotta imagine the level of patience his driver has to have to deal with this boy.

Anyway, I had this headcanon that spending so many years working together, an engine would pick up a thing or two in behavior from their operators. In Thomas's case, he got his joking side from his fireman, and his serious, self-important side from his driver (started doing this in the last story). I even broke down and finally decided to give Thomas's crew (for the sake of this fic's canon anyway) names, and incorporate them in larger roles in the story. I had this idea for this conflict I wanted to happen between Matthew the stern, fatherly driver and David the "fun" uncle fireman anyway. And the headcanon is that these two have really impressed their personalities onto Thomas. But I can't really draw any parallels between Emily and the men I imagined run her. Like Thomas, they're definitely not her first crewmen, but she does care for them dearly, and that should show later in the story.

Speaking about Thomas and Emily's juxtaposition, I also had the passing thought that her coaches, who are never shown to be sentient as far as I'm aware, are boys, and their quietness as well is a contrast to Annie and Clarabel, who are vocal and highly opinionated. I have a note about it in a later chapter but it really isn't important to the story other than a headcanon, so I might get rid of it.

Without further ado, time to let it rip!

(Edit 2024: Gack! That intro poem. Well I tried… I could delete it but I feel like that's chickening out. Comments/criticisms/flame/fluff, I wanna hear what you have to say. Posting to Archive because I have an account on here now, I finally finished another chapter, and well, it is almost Christmas. Cheers!)